Thursday, April 07, 2005

Radio announcers eventually leave town. Yer hunting pals will always be there.

Top of the morning gents,

Too weird.

I was listening to far away radio stations, didn't
find anything worth fine tuning.

When I returned to KBRW am I was pleased to hear Dean
Tongen from Kotzebue broadcasting on National Native
News.

You boys that never hung out at your local radio
stations missed out on partying with some good dudes.

You remember when Brian Higman broadcasted his
wrinkled hippy rock radio hour on Saturday evenings
and you ought to recall Len Anderson's gay ass polka
radio hour.

Al Sanders is working for KIRO TV 7 in Seattle, Nellie
Moore is working in Anchorage, and Martha Stewart is
rapidly smoking and aging for a Washington DC lobbyist
firm.

Ed Alexander is likely still doing his "Old Time
Country Radio Hour" in one of Virginia states.

Some talent flew the coop, some stay around for
centuries. Earl Finkler has established a comfortable
niche and will likely die behind the microphone here
in Ukpeagvik Child Rape Territory.

Strange how humans migrate the fuck outa this planet.
Brian Higman is only minutes from the school shooting
at the Red (neck) Lake Indun Reserve; living, working,
and raising a little girl in the town of Bemidgi,
Minnesota.

His little girl seems healthy despite Higman's
addiction to genetically damaging bits of paper, sugar
cubes, eye drops and some of the foulest pussy.

No shit, his Irish good looks did little to offset the
sheer ugliness and stench of the O-ringed sewer ports
he snacked and spooged.

He now is drowning in religo-faggot gospel surrounding
himself with other recovering LSD junkies: all with
shrunken brain stems and shrunken genitalia. This
church o' mystical people is about as relevant as
leaking gimps on public transportation.

We're talking sick puppies wearing t-shirts declaring
"Drugs Saved My Life."

People change, and rarely for the better.

One time, say pert near 20 years ago, MicroDot
(higboy) flew from Kotzebue to Lem's Mortuary and
Crack House in Mountlake Terrace. After 2 days of
shoveling snow (so to speak) Brian remembered he'd
ditched his ugly bride at a hotel with no money, no
car, and no clue she'd married a gimpoid.

I'm still indebted to Higman for leaving his man-beast
elsewhere, ugliness of her stature would have
introduced a serious buzz kill, resulting in our
boners fleeing from our bodies at the site of such
aboriginal genital and facial mutilation.

The Mrs. just punched me and told me she was born that
way. Yikes, someone unknowingly pitched the baby out
with the bath water and poured the afterbirth into the
incubator.

Brain Higman (mispelling intentional) explained that
Blanch, BJ, or Ho always despised things of beauty and
lived a miserable existence at the bottom of every
totem pole she parted her cheeks over.

I have difficulty maintaining friendships. We all
promise to keep in touch, but seldom do. It's only by
accident and serendipity that I learn clues to the
whereabouts of folks we partied with North of the
Arctic Circle, or in Shitbanks, Alaska.

I'll leave it to all you lads to shoot me encouraging
messages while I'll continue composing amusing
vignettes involving all of you but alternating my
abuse of each of ye. Fuck ye.

One girl that I can't remember used to work at KOTZ;
she didn't like me.

Her dog was loose and barking at my heels, so I fed
one to him. I booted that fucking dog like a field
goal punt, landing him against his owner's house,
yielding a screaming lecture about animal cruelty and
my lack of concern. Of course I responded with an
obligatory "fuck you" and "who gives a shit about a
fucking dog."

She seethed vaginal secretions right outa her face she
was that mad.

Here's the shitty part. I heard her announcing over a
Finnish Radio Station, NRJ. She was an intern for
Helsinki's local bubble gum club radio station. Ick.
Since I lived nearby the NRJ station, I thought I'd go
look for her dog to kick again. None such, my last
boot plant was hopefully terminal.

Spend some time at yer local radio stations, you owe
it to us to maintain broadcast balance and encourage
stories of violence in the form of killing,
butchering, and freezing our 4 Alaskan food groups;
moose, fish, beer and chronic.

If left untended, we'll only hear super religious
rants and raves, rap music, and ghetto mod language
only decipherable by this year's dying batch of
adolescent niggeraboriginals. Fucked up kids thinking
they're descendants from Africa, instead of Asian
Mongoloids.

Disposable generations. That's what I see here on the
reserve.

Dirty little kids with rusty rings around their mouths
from huffing on gas cans dreaming of some day
graduating to shitty booze, sick broads, and lethal
meth.

Looking backwards and forwards 25 years paints a
depressing picture. I've seen thousands of white
folks move in to village Alaska hoping to see
authentic natives doing authentically offensive stuff.


Sorry, that job is now mine. The damn tour busses stop
and watch me cut up animals both domestic and
nutritional. Dumb fucking gooks, I'm a counterfeit
imposter hiding in plain site, yet the stench from my
hair, beard and clothing is real.

Have you seen the muktuk man? Better described as
"Stink Man."

My front yard is a nightmare of body parts and filth
and according to the Super Dad from Unalakleet (code
name Sarin Gas) that from the odor of rotting whale,
reindeer, caribou and fish blood and guts, I'm more
native that he is.

Funny motherfucker ain't he? He kills far more food
than I, rapes more inlaws than I, but knows I'll
happily take crap in the form of veiled insults and
reversed racism only from honored patrons of my covert
bar and speak easy.

He and I are cofounders of the Barrow branch of the
C&B TnT Hunting Club (coffee and bong hits, tea and
tokes). He and I have maimed, killed and butchered a
shit load of geese, ducks, and caribou. He's also
pitched tonage of whale grub your direction. Poor
bastard gets stuck helping me pack and lift heavy
freight to the airport every goddamned day.

If he was truly intelligent he should've smoked a
round through my head. Poor lad's taken an unfair
amount of crap from folks 'round town.

"That tall white guy raped his 200 pound hybrid
wolf-dog and beat up my kids. He's also a narc. How
come he don't leave town now that he's done busting
everybody?" -aboriginally paraphrased requote
detailing my percieved sins of vigilance.

Deadly Sarin Gas is a smart lad and likely won't ever
leave this remote Eskimo village. Ya see, he ain't a
flake from public broadcasting, he's just a killer.

He and I chat about fleeing this stalag, but we won't.

Our kind don't last long in civilized company, modern
day subsistence hunters are viewed as cannibals and
are quickly incarcerated. Nope, we'll probably die
and be buried up here or dumped into an urn full of
roaches, resin and ashes.

He once told me some valuable advice, if I ever
decided to marry an ugly native. "If you want to know
what a Barrow girl will look like in 20 years, just
take a look at her dad."

I don't care where yer born, that's funny.

It's whaling season again boys. I gotta find a crew
to volunteer for. The Arctic Ocean doesn't freeze up
flat and smooth like Kotzebue Sound. We got buckled
piles and upheavals rougher'n shit.

Making trail is the hardest part of poaching
endangered sea mammals for sport. Even harder'n firing
up Operation Muktuk. One good thing I love about
global warming, our trail duties get shorter and
shorter every year. In a few millenium, I'll be able
to block and tackle our whale directly into my back
yard. How cool is that?


Have pick and shovel, will travel.


Karl.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home